Sarah told Mary that Stephen Ellington-Smith was a country gentleman, old style. That he was too magnanimous to be petty about his play. That he was, in fact, a poppet. Mary said, 'Well, that's a good thing, isn't it?' Sonia took in this exchange with her little air of detachment.
Sarah sat with her back to the two young women, pretending to work, listening… no, one young woman and a middle-aged one: she had to accept that about Mary, even if it did hurt. They had all become so used to each other… Sonia was there in that office — not strictly her territory — not only to learn but to stake a claim. She wanted to be made responsible for the next production, Hedda Gabler. 'You people will be busy with your Julie,' she said. There was no need for the two senior officials to confer: they knew what each other thought. And why not? They were not likely to find anyone sharper, cleverer — and more ambitious — than Sonia. 'Why not?' said Mary, and without turning around, Sarah said, 'Why not?' In this way confirming Sonia's position, and a much larger salary. Sonia left. 'Why not?' said Mary again, quietly, and Sarah turned herself about and smiled confirmation of Mary's real message, which was that there really was no doubt of it — an epoch was indeed over.
Sarah did not need a week to use Stephen's dialogue where it fitted, but decided to pretend she had needed that time, so he would not feel his contribution was inconsiderable. But when she was actually seated there, in her room, the mess of papers she was already calling the script spread about, a week did not seem too much. For one thing, she was unhappy with the existing translation of the journals. She had made her own of some of the passages, those that would accompany the music. She had had to get permission from the Rostands. 'After all,' she had written, 'it is only a question of a few pages. It is not as if I were proposing to make a new translation of all Julie's writings.' In fact she wished she could. She privately believed that people loving literature who chanced to read her translations would at once see how much better, more vivacious, her language was, how much closer to Julie's self. Perhaps one day she would make a new translation, choosing different passages: she did not necessarily agree with the English translator's choices. She understood Julie much better than… Sitting there, the word processor pushed to one side, for she was still at the stage of words scribbled on loose sheets with a Biro — yes, pretty old-fashioned, she knew — she thought, That's something of a claim I'm making… conceited? Perhaps. But I think it's true. This young woman hasn't understood the first thing about Julie… I care very much that her translation is flat, no effervescence. I care too much. I am altogether too much involved in this business. Yes, of course you have to be totally submerged in what you are working on, even if a week after it's finished you've forgotten it… What is it about that bloody Julie: she gets under people's skin; she's under mine. Look how this thing takes off, spreads itself about — she's blowing us all apart, and we know it. I really am intoxicated — probably all these months of listening to the music. Well, I have to listen to it this week… I'm making everything too complicated: I've spent years and years weighted with Duty, working like a madwoman, and if I don't watch out I'll go sailing off into the sky like a hydrogen balloon.
She sat, hour after hour, choosing words, hearing them: seductive. Like music, particularly when choosing words that will be congruous with music. The words, which she was already hearing sung, were running in her head. This is an affliction of words' users and makers. Words appear in your mind and dance there to rhythms you consciously know nothing about. Tags and rags of words: they can be an indication of a hidden state of mind. They can jiggle or sing for days, driving you mad. They can be like invisible film, like cling film, between you and reality. She was hardly the first person to have noted this. D. H. Lawrence, for instance: 'She was angry with him, turning everything into words. Violets were Juno's eyelids, and windflowers were unravished brides. How she hated words, always coming between her and life: they did the ravishing, if anything did: ready-made words and phrases, sucking all the life out of living things.' Yes, this was an illustration of exactly what she complained of: there was the quotation, pat and patented, colonizing her mind. Well, when she had finished this task, Julie's words, not to mention the Countess Dié's, would linger and then sink back into that vast invisible Book of Great Quotations, leaving her in peace… she had long ago created a saving mental image, to be used at moments when her brain was so abuzz with words she seemed to prickle all over with their energy.
She imagined a shepherd boy from a long time ago — hundreds of years, for it was more restful if this scene lived in an antique air, as if it had come off a wall or the side of a vase. This young creature was illiterate, had never seen words on a page, or on a parchment. There were tales in his head, for there has never been a country or a culture without them. But when he sat on his dry hillside, under his tree, watching — what? sheep, probably — his mind was empty, and memories or thoughts came to him in the shape of pictures. Sarah did not allow this poor youth even the traditional shepherd's pipe. Silence it had to be. Only a breeze moving through the tree he sat under. A cricket. The sheep cropping the grass. This figure had to be a boy. A girl — no. She would almost certainly be wondering whom she would be married off to. Girls were seldom allowed to be alone, but it did not matter, a girl or a boy — and silence. Sarah tried to imagine what it would be like not to have a brain set by the printed word. Not easy.
When the week was up, Sarah telephoned Stephen to say she believed the script — the libretto? how was this hybrid to be described? — was ready. No doubt that he was pleased to hear her voice, and she was disproportionately pleased that his voice warmed and lifted. Then he said, 'But you know, you really don't have to… ' in the way of someone not expecting much consideration. Which was surely remarkable?
'But of course,' said Sarah. 'We are co-authors after all.'
'I'm not going to complain. Tomorrow?'
And now began a time which, when she looked back on it, seemed like a country where she had gone by chance, one she had not known existed, a place of charm, a landscape like a dream landscape, with its own strong atmosphere, that speaks in a language one half knows or has forgotten. Before meeting Stephen somewhere — a restaurant, a garden, a park, she would say to herself, Oh come on, you're imagining it. When it was time to part, she was reluctant, and made excuses to put off the moment. She knew he was doing the same. He too probably thought before meeting her or after they separated, 'Nonsense, I'm imagining it.' But they could not doubt that when they were together they were in a pleasantness, an ease, an air different from quotidian life. A charmed place where anything could be said. And yet this was not a case of two people finding each other's lives a reason for being intrigued. If she was not much interested in his, it was because she had not experienced anything like it: he was rich, he owned a large and historic house. When he asked about her life, she gave him the facts: she had been married young, widowed young, she had successfully brought up two children by herself. She had almost by accident — so it seemed now — become well known in the theatre. Oh yes, she had for a time been responsible for her brother's child. He listened, thought, and remarked, 'When people tell you about their lives — well, the plot — they don't tell you much about themselves. Not really.' As if he thought she was about to disagree, he went on, 'That is, not if they are people with anything to them. What's interesting about people is not what life hands out to them. We can't help that, can we?'
He was making some kind of plea for himself, or an explanation, so she believed. But why did he need to? He often seemed to feel the need to apologize. What for?